Without a Past
by feistypumpkin
Summary: Spike Courtland has no memories of himself. The only thing that seems familiar is Buffy Summers O'Connor.
1. Chapter 1

Without a Past  
  
By feistypumpkin  
  
Summary: James "Spike" Courtland had no memories of himself or where he came from. The only thing that seemed familiar was grieving widow, Buffy Summers O'Connor. Why at the sight of her, do memories of passionate nights spent in her arms flash through his mind? Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. Characters from BtVS and Ats belong to ME and the brilliant mind of Joss Whedon. Any other characters or ideas belong to Rita Herron. This story is based on the book Memories of Megan by Rita Herron. Rating: R  
  
Some people will probably hate me for rewriting this story because regrettably, I have to make a few favorite characters into bad guys. Please bear with me.  
  
Feedback would be nice!!!  
  
Chapter One  
  
"I'm sorry to inform you that your husband is dead, Mrs. O'Conner. His body washed up on shore a few hours ago." Detective Harris sat down in the chair across from Buffy, his expression grave.  
Buffy clutched her stomach, the horror of hearing her fears confirmed seeping through her body like a virus. It had been six weeks since Angel had disappeared. Six weeks of not knowing.  
Nausea rose to her throat at the images that stabbed through her. She dropped her head forward in her lap and tried to breathe.  
"I'll get you a glass of water."  
Buffy nodded, to numb to do anything else, while the detective hurried to the kitchen.  
Seconds later, he returned and handed her the glass. Buffy sipped slowly, grateful for the wetness soothing her parched throat. "Do you know what happened?"  
The cop's expression paled. Had he been there when they'd dragged her husband from the sea? Had he seen the body?  
"Most likely drowned, but the coroner's doing an autopsy." Detective Harris shrugged. "I'm not sure how much he'll be able to determine..."  
He let the sentence trail off and Buffy clenched the glass of water as if it were a lifeline.  
"You said that he like to fish sometimes, to take his mind off his work. My first guess would be that he was out late an didn't realize how far he'd drifted off shore, got caught in the tides and fell overboard."  
Buffy's gaze swung to his. "But Angel was an excellent swimmer."  
"You know how difficult it is to fight an undercurrent, even for the best of swimmers. A bad thunderstorm came through that night, too."  
She nodded, silently admitting Angel had been drinking a lot those last few weeks, and had been a daredevil when it came to the weather. He'd been drinking and secretive. And tired. And disturbed about something, but he wouldn't talk to her about it.  
She'd known he was unhappy. Had worried he'd stopped loving her, that he planned to ask for a divorce, but hadn't gotten up the nerve.  
Now she'd never know.  
The detective shuffled, "We'll let you know as soon as the body is released so you can make plans for the burial."  
Nausea gripped her again. There would be so much to do. She'd have to make funeral arrangements and tell the people at the research foundation. He'd never talked about his parents, so she didn't know how to contact them or if they were even still alive.  
The cop gently patted her shoulder. "Well, let me know if I can do anything for you, Mrs. O'Connor. I'll let myself out."  
"Thank you."  
She forced herself to stand after hearing the click of the door and the police car drive away. Her stomach convulsed and she rushed to the bathroom, sank to her knees and let the tears fall.  
The negative pregnancy test mocked her from the sink. Angel had wanted a baby and she'd felt like a failure when their attempts at conceiving had failed.  
Now he would never have a child and she had nothing left of him but troubled memories.  
And questions. Lots of unanswered questions. 


	2. Chapter 2

(For the purposes of this story, Ethan Rayne isn't British.)  
  
"You said my name was what?" The man pivoted to study the doctor as he unwound the last of the bandages from his face. He was too afraid of what he might see when the last one fell away.  
  
Dr. Rayne peered over his silver reading glasses, worry creasing his brow. "Spike."  
  
"Spike? What kind of poncy name is that?"  
  
"Well, that's just a nickname. Your real name is James Courtland. You're a psychiatrist. You've just signed on at the Sunnydale Research Park in Sunnydale. You are—"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. You bloody told me. Thirty-five, single, a workaholic." Frustration clawed at him. "So, why can't I remember a bleeding thing?"  
  
"Because you suffered severe head trauma in the car accident. Your memory should return in bits and pieces. Hopefully you haven't lost that scientific mind."  
  
Spike remained stoic as the doctor laughed at his own joke. Nothing these few past weeks had been funny.  
  
He strained for the memories again, for any snippet of his past life. Spike Courtland. A psychiatrist. During all those painful hours of lying in the hospital he hadn't imagined himself to be a doctor of any kind.  
  
Well, until a few days ago, he'd been in too much pain to give a rat's ass about his past. He'd been struggling through every minute. The fear of being paralyzed; of looking like a monster.  
  
"Now, see what modern medicine can do." Dr. Rayne spun the stool around so that Spike faced the mirror, placed his hands on Spike's shoulders and directed him to look. "It may not be quite the same as your old face, but it's not so bad. There's a little swelling and bruising, but it'll fade.  
  
Spike stared at the stranger in the mirror, cold terror running through him. Not only did he not remember his name, but also he didn't recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror. 


	3. Chapter 3

(Another side note for this story, Willow is not gay and Dru is not British. Sorry for changing the characters this way. Oh, also, Dru isn't crazy.)  
  
Three days after Buffy had received the news of her husband's death, she stood huddled in her raincoat while they lowered his body into the cold damp ground. Nearly a hundred flowers decorated the area surrounding the grave, their vibrant colours at odds with the miserable day. The church had been packed with town's people who had known Angel, along with scientists from the research center. The preacher offered words of comfort, read some scripture and then ended the service with a prayer. Buffy's heart clenched as the visitor's began to disperse. Drusilla, Angel's secretary, cried into her hands.  
  
Exhaustion pulled at Buffy as the visitors offered their condolences, but she forced herself to shake hands, occasionally sparing her best friend Willow a glance, silently thanking her for staying by her side, offering support.  
  
Drusilla suddenly stood in front of her, looking lost. "Buf—"her voice broke.  
  
Buffy pulled her into her arms and tried to soothe her. "It'll be okay, Dru."  
  
"But you and Angel have been so good to me. I don't know what I would have done...what I'll do."  
  
Angel had helped Dru get up the courage to leave her abusive husband. She was still fragile from the experience.  
  
"Just know that Angel would be proud of you for taking care of yourself so well," Buffy said softly. "And he'd want to you stay strong, to keep on doing that."  
  
Dru pulled away, trying to compose herself. "Thanks, Buffy. If you need me, I'm here."  
  
Buffy thanked her, weariness settling in her bones as Drusilla turned and walked away. The long line of people waiting to speak to her stretched in front of her and she felt herself sway.  
  
Willow grabbed her elbow. "Here, you'd better sit down."  
  
Buffy nodded numbly and sank into a metal folding chair, the sea of people blurring in front of her. Tears ran down her face, mingling with the rain. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be alone to mourn. And God there were so many things to mourn for.  
  
A love that should have lasted forever.  
  
The man who died before she could make him happy.  
  
The chance to make things right was lost forever.  
  
TBC. 


	4. Chapter 4

(Just so I don't have to make notes anymore, the only British character in this story is going to be Spike, and maybe Giles if I put him in—still brainstorming with the characters----Angel had that whole accent thing going on so- well you'll why I had to say that eventually.)  
  
Spike watched the casket being lowered into the ground, a chill engulfing him. Oddly, Angel had disappeared the same day that Spike had had his accident. It could have been his body being lowered into that hole just as easily as O'Connor's.  
  
For a brief second when he'd seen the casket and the hold in the ground, he'd had a flash that it was him being lowered. That he was Angel O'Connor and he had died.  
  
Rupert Giles, the doctor at the research center who'd been helping Spike with his recovery after the accident, frowned solemnly. "He was a good man. We'll miss him at the center."  
  
"It...it seems strange that I survived, but he died on the same day."  
  
Giles gave him a sympathetic look. "Don't succumb to survivor guilt," he said in a low voice. "As a doctor, you know that's dangerous."  
  
Spike shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black leather duster. The harsh reality of the timing obviously hadn't escaped him and had played with his head. He had felt guilty that luck had been on his side that day and he had survived. Granted he had a new face, his memory was on the shaky side and he had a slight limp, but bloody hell, at least he was still able to walk.  
  
He shuddered, wondering if he should have come. He hadn't wanted to. In fact, he had the oddest feeling he didn't attend funerals, but he couldn't remember why. He'd hoped seeing so many of the research center's stuff in one place would jog some of his memory.  
  
"I didn't know him that well, did I?"  
  
Giles shrugged. "No. You only met once. At the center when you came for the interview. I believe you corresponded through e-mail about your research, but I'm not certain."  
  
Shaking off the uneasy feeling, Spike stared across the smattering of faces, a few of them familiar from the three days he'd spent getting acquainted with the research center."  
  
His gaze settled on Angel O'Connor's wife. Buffy. A nurse from the psychiatric ward.  
  
Another eerie sensation skittered across his nerve endings, a flash of some kind memory tugging at him. He must have met her before, probably at the facility or at one of the dinners for the center when he was being interviewed. She wouldn't be an easy woman to forget.  
  
She had the face of an angel, the body of a fighter, and the lips of a lover.  
  
But he had no right to even think such lurid thoughts, especially at a funeral.  
  
From her grief-stricken face, she'd obviously cared for her husband deeply.  
  
During those long, lonely days in the hospital, he had thought about his life, the fact that he had no one. No family who'd come looking for him. No woman who searched him out, sat by his bedside, vowed that she loved him.  
  
Apparently, he had no family back in England and hadn't made any friends in Los Angeles.  
  
In a strange way, he envied Angel O'Connor.  
  
He knew that was sick. The man died, for God's sake, and here he stood, alive and bloody breathing, feeling bloody sorry for himself.  
  
One by one, the visitors stopped to speak to Buffy.  
  
"I'm going to give him my condolences," Giles said.  
  
Spike hesitated. Finally he took a deep breath and stalked, (which was very hard to do with an injured leg and a cane) across the damp ground through the throng of people. Her gaze rose and met his across the crowd. Raindrops dotted her face, mingling with tears, the raincoat shielding her sunny-colored hair and slim body. But it was the dark circles beneath her haunted hazel eyes that made his gut clench.  
  
Without remembering how he reached her, Spike found himself standing in front of her, not knowing what to say, but he extended his hand, wanting to take away her pain.  
  
She slowly lifted her small hand and placed it inside his, the whisper of her soft skin brushing his callused fingertips. A small surge of awareness skated through him. Her lips parted slightly as is she, too, felt the odd connection between them.  
  
A wave of images suddenly flashed through his head like a movie trailer. Images of Buffy Summers looking at him with those haunted hazel eyes. Images of her crying on his shoulder. Of her raising of tiptoe to smother his mouth with kisses. Her lying naked in his arms and calling his name in the darkness of the night.  
  
He snapped his hand back and felt himself grow weak. What in the bleeding hell had just happened? Those flashes had seemed so real. But they couldn't have been memories?  
  
Could they?  
  
TBC. 


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy's hand trembled as she pulled it from the stranger's, a slight chill slithering up her spine. She pulled her raincoat around her, trying to place his face in the fog of grief engulfing her, yet she had never met him before. Or had she?  
  
And why was he looking at her so intently?  
  
"I'm sorry about your husband," he said in a low voice.  
  
His accent startled her. He really didn't look like the type that would have an accent. It reminded her of Angel's.  
  
"I'm afraid I didn't know him very well—I'd just been hired to work at the center," he continued.  
  
He was nervous she realized, remembering that Angel had had an aversion to funerals as well. Maybe it was a man thing. Not that she enjoyed going to them herself, but sometimes people didn't have a choice. In fact, she'd already been to enough funerals to last a lifetime.  
  
At ten she had lost her dad. At seventeen, she'd buried her mom.  
  
And now Angel.  
  
She shook her head, operating on autopilot. "Thank you for coming, Mr....."  
  
"Courtland. Spike Courtland." A frown pinched his dark eyebrows as he shifted. "Anyway, I just wanted to offer my regrets."  
  
Buffy nodded, clasping her hands together as his bright blue eyes bore into hers. "I suppose I'll see you at the center."  
  
"I suppose."  
  
He lifted his hand to wipe away the raindrops sliding down the pale skin of his cheek. A long purple scar curved his hand and another smaller, whiter X-shaped one slashed through his left eyebrow. She wondered what had happened to him, but forced herself not to ask.  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact, we'll be working together." His voice lowered, sympathy making it huskier and his Cockney accent sharper. "That is, when you feel like returning to work."  
  
Buffy nodded. She hadn't thought that far ahead. Then, again, work would probably fill the endless, empty days ahead. Help take her mind off of her grief. "You're in psychiatry?"  
  
His blue eyes looked somber. "Yes."  
  
For the first time, Buffy realized that he was handsome. Not in the tall, dark way Angel had been, but in a more primal way. He was very lean and slightly muscular. His cheekbones were razor sharp against his pale skin and his aquiline nose sat between two deep blue eyes that seemed to change color at every turn.  
  
Guilt suffused her—how could she notice a man's looks when Angel had just been put in the ground? What kind of wife was she? Had she been?  
  
One who had disappointed her husband...  
  
Spike Courtland, (What kind of name was Spike anyway?) shifted again, wincing as if his leg hurt. He was leaning on a dark wooden cane. So, he had been hurt recently. The reason for the scars, perhaps the reason he was so lean...  
  
"I was actually coming to work with Angel."  
  
Buffy's throat closed. A dozen other questions tumbled through her head, but the realization that she would see this man again, and probably on a daily basis, shook her to the core.  
  
The trouble was, she had no idea why the idea upset her so. She only knew that she didn't want to be around him. And that eerie feeling she'd had when they'd first met had just magnified tenfold.  
  
TBC. 


	6. Chapter 6

Spike stepped back as Buffy stood to leave, and offered a hand for support, but she refused his help, looking wary as if he'd said or done something to upset her. Odd, how just a few moments before he'd met her, he'd had visions of knowing her, of seeing her before, when now his mind almost seemed blank. Like a deep tunnel, long and empty and devastatingly dark.  
  
Briefly he wondered if they could've had an affair.  
  
No, she hadn't acted as if she'd known him at all.  
  
Of course, his face looked different, but if they'd known each other before, if they'd met, she would've recognized his name.  
  
Instincts told him he wasn't the kind of man to sleep with another man's wife.  
  
Or was he?  
  
Confused, he hunched inside his duster and followed the other mourners. God, he hated this bloody cane. A redhead about the same height as Buffy gathered her into a protective embrace. Obviously a close friend, Buffy leaned on the other woman as if she were exhausted. He imagined she was. His own muscles protested the long walk. He hated the weakness right now. Hated any kind of weakness.  
  
The light rain drizzled down, the fall wind kicking up, stirring wet leaves and forcing flowers from other graves to sway and droop as he limped across the grass.  
  
Giles turned to wait for him at the edge of the cemetery. "How's the leg?"  
  
Spike grimaced. "Getting' better." He squinted through the hazy sky as Buffy and her friend climbed in the car. "Have I met Mrs. O'Connor before?"  
  
"Not that I know of." Giles frowned and pulled out his keys. "Why do you ask?"  
  
Spike shrugged. "I don't know. She just seems...familiar."  
  
"You probably saw a picture of Angel and her somewhere. I believe he's got one in his office."  
  
"Probably."  
  
"Get some rest. I'll see you at the center."  
  
Spike flicked his hand in a wave as Giles jogged off to his car. Spike couldn't move quite so fast. The scent of sorrow and dank muddy ground assailed him as he headed down the embankment. He dreaded going back to his place.  
  
The small apartment at the edge of the research center didn't hold a bleeding bit of recognition for him. A place he'd been told he'd agreed to rent when he'd signed on with SRC and made his transition from...where did they say he'd come from? Oh, yeah, the City of Angels. Los Angeles.  
  
But he remembered none of it. And the apartment he'd chosen to live in didn't feel like a home at all. It felt like a prison. 


	7. Chapter 7

Buffy set the cup of tea on the kitchen table and folded her hands in her lap. "Thanks, Willow. I don't know what I would have done without you the last three days. Please tell all the nurses and staff members how much I appreciate the food they brought." Casseroles and homemade dishes covered the island in the center of her kitchen. So much food that she had no appetite for.  
  
"Who was that man talking to you before you left?" Willow asked.  
  
Buffy blew into the tea to cool it. "His name is Spike Courtland. He's a new psychiatrist at the center."  
  
"Spike? It looked like he upset you."  
  
Buffy shrugged. "He came here to work with Angel." She didn't want to tell her the rest, how his touch had given her the strangest feeling. How just looking into his deep blue eyes had been unnerving. Willow would think she was crazy.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Buffy." Willow leaned over and hugged her. "I know how much you wanted things to work out for you and Angel."  
  
Buffy nodded, warming her hands on the oversize mug and rolling her shoulders. Tension clawed at her, the lack of sleep and emotions over the past few days finally wearing her down.  
  
"You look exhausted. Drink that and get some rest." Willow grabbed her yellow raincoat. "And call me if you need me."  
  
"I will. You be careful." Buffy rose and latched the lock on her front door, her eyes narrowing when she glanced out the window and watched Willow sprint to her car. Seconds later Willow climbed into her Volvo and drove away, rain spewing from the back of her car as she sped towards the apartment she rented at SRC. Buffy let the curtain slip back in place, but a dark sedan across the street drew her eye. It was parked beneath a palm tree, casting it in shadows made worse by the dark sky. She peeled the curtain back and studied the vehicle for a moment, trying to see if someone was inside. Had she seen the car in the neighborhood before? Could it belong to one of the neighbors? People she'd never met because she and Angel had both been too busy at work to entertain? Too busy trying to hold their marriage together?  
  
Except for those last few weeks when he'd moved out, when she'd sensed he was giving up...  
  
Had she seen the car while he was gone?  
  
After several tense seconds, she decided she must be getting paranoid. The car was empty. And there was no reason for anyone to be lurking outside her house. No reason anyone would follow her or want to harm her. After all, Angel's death had been accidental, not suspicious.  
  
Chuckling at her runaway imagination, she carried her tea to the bedroom, bypassing Angel's closet with a tentative glance. At some point she had to sort through his things and clear them out. At least what he hadn't taken with him when they'd separated. But not tonight. She was too battered by Angel's funeral.  
  
She slipped beneath the covers and finished her tea. Weariness pulled at her, but the uneasiness she'd felt earlier rose again to taunt her. Could someone have been outside watching her? And if they had, who were they?  
  
She couldn't quite forget the trouble surrounding the research center just a few short weeks ago.  
  
That Quentin Travers, the CEO and cofounder who'd been behind the unsavory sale of some of their research, might not dead as the police hoped. That his body had never been found.  
  
That Angel had been working on something secretive the last few months, something that had made him jittery and even more closed off from her than before. And that stranger who had recently been in an accident of some kind himself, but who'd taken her husband's place at the hospital.  
  
A man who had come out of nowhere. 


	8. Chapter 8

He was watching her. Standing beside her bed, his dark eyes staring at her, his hand outstretched.  
  
Shadows hugged the walls, the curtain billowing out from the window, and the whisper of a familiar scent filling the room. His cologne. The one she had given him for Christmas last year. The one he'd hated.  
  
Buffy struggled to reach for his hand but her arm was too heavy. Frustration welled inside her. She focused her energy on lifting her hand, but as she did, he took a step backward. His frame stood silhouetted in the moonlight, the dark look of concern on his face so somber, a whimper bubbled in her throat.  
  
What was wrong?  
  
It was Angel, wasn't it?  
  
He opened his mouth as if to speak, his eyebrows pinched the way they did when he was trying to concentrate or when he was brooding over something. But when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. She tried to reach for him again, but he slipped farther away, almost floating now, the distance sucking him in some kind of surreal vacuum...what was he trying to tell her?  
  
"Don't go," she whispered. "Please don't leave me."  
  
His lips moved again, slowly as if it was painful and she traced the movements, studying the words. "Be careful, Buffy. Don't trust anyone."  
  
Buffy jerked upright, her heart pounding. Throwing back the covers, she searched the darkness, a gasp escaping her when she was the curtain fluttering from the open window.  
  
Someone had been in her bedroom.  
  
The window had been shut when she'd gone to bed.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
He hunkered low in the car, hiding in the shadows of the night his only light the glow the cell as he pressed it one ear while watching Buffy Summers O'Connor's house.  
  
"How did the funeral go?"  
  
He snorted. "It was a funeral. How the hell do you think it went?"  
  
His partner chuckled. "Do you think she suspects anything?"  
  
"No, leastways she's not asking any questions." With a gloved hand, he wiped the fog from the tinted window. A light flickered on in Buffy's bedroom. She was awaked now. Probably sitting up in bed, that blonde hair tousled around her face and shoulders, her nightshirt clinging to her lean body.  
  
"Good, keep it that way."  
  
He jerked his thoughts back on track. Back to the scene at the graveyard. "But-"  
  
"But what?"  
  
"That guy Courtland, he talked to her for a few minutes after the service."  
  
A long silence followed. "What did they talk about?"  
  
"Nothing really. Just chit-chat, but he kept looking at her, sort of creepy, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Like a man watching a lay, probably. She is good-looking."  
  
Worry knotted his stomach. Buffy Summers O'Connor was a sharp nurse, intuitive, sensitive to her patients' needs. Smart. Maybe too smart. He shrugged off the worry. "Yeah, I guess that was it." He remembered the way Buffy's long blonde hair had looked spread across her pillow. Imagined the silky strands wound around the black leather of his glove. Damn right she was good-looking.  
  
Unfortunately her good looks wouldn't matter if she started asking questions.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
Buffy's heart pounded as she switched on the light and grabbed the cordless phone. She had to search the apartment.  
  
Sliding from bed, she reached for the umbrella on the dresser, planning to use it as a weapon if necessary. Praying she wouldn't need it, she inched through the room, pausing every few feet to listen for an intruder, but silence hung in the air, deadly calm and frightening.  
  
Her finger tightened around the umbrella base as she rushed to close the window. On guarded feet, she tiptoed to the doorway and peered into the hallway. Nothing but shadowy blank walls. She took a tentative step, then crept down the hall and checked the small den. Darkness bathed the area, cloaking it in heavy shadows.  
  
The floor lamp looked ominous, the sofa, the chair; every small crevice a possible hiding place. Taking a deep breath, she flicked on the light, and braced herself. Thankfully her apartment was laid out as one open room so she could see both the kitchen and den at once. Her gaze searched the parameters. Nothing. She sucked in a deep breath and tiptoed around the corner, then checked underneath the breakfast counter. Again nothing.  
  
Thank God. Adrenaline surged through her as she ran to the door and checked the locks, the windows, the closet. But everything remained intact. No spooky demons or monsters hiding inside or beneath anything.  
  
Her breathing still unsteady, she crept back to the bedroom and stared at the room. The deep maroon walls looked almost bloodlike, the shadow of the trees limbs ominous. She had once thought the room to be a cozy sanctuary for her and Angel.  
  
Now it seemed frightening. She glanced outside for the dark sedan, rubbing her hands up an down her tan arms. The car was gone. Still, someone had been inside her house.  
  
Should she call the cops? And tell them what? That she thought someone had been in her house because her window was open?  
  
Or had she just imagined that someone had been there? Had she been dreaming of Angel? But what about the faint scent of a man's cologne lingering in the room? Was she imagining that, too?  
  
Stumbling back to bed, she reminded herself how safe she had felt when she and Angel had moved in.  
  
Now she felt anything but safe.  
  
TBC... 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
  
Spike walked the outer edges of the research center's property, well aware that security tracked his every move. He inhaled the dry scent of the desert, needing the familiarity, because nothing else about his life seemed remotely familiar.  
  
Not the idea of being a psychiatrist or the people he'd met at the funeral or the little apartment he'd returned home to.  
  
Home.  
  
What did it mean for him? He had nor friends. No family. Not even back in LA where Riley Finn, the head of the psychiatric ward had told him he'd moved from. Hell, Finn had even shown him his résumé, but the info on it seemed foreign as well. Apparently he'd worked at a small private practice before signing on wit the research facility in Sunnydale.  
  
The doctor warned that it would take time to recover his memories. How much time would it take? Would his memory ever fully return? Would he ever feel like the real James Courtland again?  
  
An image of Buffy's grief-stricken face flashed into his mind, emotions gripping him. If they'd never met, why had he experienced visions of her when he'd touched her?  
  
On Monday morning, Spike stepped inside the research center feeling lost. His leg throbbed and her leaned on the cane in disgust. He needed a good run, some vigorous exercise to release his tension, but running was definitely out of the question. A good shag would be nice.  
  
"Good morning, Dr. Courtland. I'm Drusilla, your secretary. You can call me Dru."  
  
He offered a strained smile. Had he met her?  
  
"I worked for Dr. O'Connor."  
  
"I...I'm sorry about your boss."  
  
She gestured toward O'Connor's office, which adjoined hers, although each had separate entrances to the hall as well. "I'm afraid Dr. O'Connor didn't get a chance to tell me much about you, but welcome to the center."  
  
"Thanks." Unfortunately, he couldn't tell her much either.  
  
"If you need anything, just let me know." She backed toward her desk where he noticed the computer. "Dr. Giles mentioned that you wouldn't be seeing patients for awhile."  
  
"Yeah. I have to get acquainted with things." He pushed open the door to Angel's office. His new office. "Thanks for the offer."  
  
"The delivery guy already brought in your boxes."  
  
Bloody fantastic. Only he had no bleeding idea as to what was in them.  
  
He stepped inside, scanning the space. The office seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Propping the cane beside the desk, he stretched out his leg and began to rifle through the desk. The next few hours, he searched his memory for anything to jog his mind as he unpacked the stacks of research books and material he had been told belonged to him. Books and motes on schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, hypnosis, manic depression and every mental disorder known to man filled the boxes. He thumbed through each one, frowning at some of the technical jargon. Was he supposedly a specialist on one particular disorder? And if so, why didn't any of the material ring a bell in his foggy brain?  
  
Hopefully they would, he told himself, he just had to be patient. That's a bloody laugh, me patient.  
  
He chuckled and then stopped short when he realized that he'd remembered something about himself. That he wasn't a patient man. Oh, well. Not that big of a deal.  
  
Spike noticed as he got to work that all of Angel's own books and research manuals cluttered the bookcases on one wall, the materials piled haphazardly as if in no particular order. The man obviously hadn't been obsessive compulsive about neatness. Except that his notes were typed, not handwritten.  
  
Probably couldn't read his own writing.  
  
He stopped, wondering how he had made that deduction. Was it the first sign that he was a psychiatrist? It was a small tidbit, but was more important than remembering that he wasn't very patient. Now what should he do?  
  
A silver-framed five-by-seven of Buffy Summers O'Connor and her husband occupied the corner of the desk. His gut clenched at the ghostly feeling that encompassed him.  
  
She wore a deep blue sundress that brought out her deep tan, he wore a brown shirt and khaki pants. Angel's arm was thrown around his wige's shoulders, wind whipped through their hair, sails flapped in the breeze, and the bright sun gleamed off their smiles. They looked very happy.  
  
He didn't think that he was normally an emotional man, but it seemed like a betrayal to Angel's memory for him to move into his space so soon after his death. To take over his office and discard his personal things. To put Angel's wife's photo aside and add one of his own. Not that he had any personal photos to add.  
  
But Finn insisted that Angel would have wanted his work to continue, that Angel lived for his research and prided himself on his commitment to his profession and his patients.  
  
What about his wife? Had Angel been a doting husband or had he been so obsessed with his work that she had taken second place?  
  
He shook away the troubling thought, wondering why he had even given it a moment's thought. Buffy Summers had looked very happy in the photo. And she had been grief-stricken at her husband's funeral. Besides, she was not his problem. God knew he had enough of his own.  
  
Still, so far the memories of her had been more tangible than any others.  
  
Maybe she held some secret key that might unlock his past.  
  
TBC. 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
  
Buffy entered the research center hospital area through the security checkpoint, stopping only to accept brief offers of sympathy from various employees.  
  
"I'm surprised to see you here," Cordelia, one of the research assistants, said.  
  
"It's better to keep busy." Buffy moved on for fear of breaking down. Several of the others staff members echoed the same sentiment as she veered down the corridor toward Angel's office.  
  
Two of Angel's colleagues, Riley Finn and Rupert Giles, seemed engrossed in a serious discussion as they approached her from the opposite direction. Something about the case study on autism treatments, she heard one of them say. But as soon as they spotted her, the conversation instantly died.  
  
"We didn't expect you to come back to work so soon." Dr. Finn, a handsome man in his early thirties with thick tawny hair and tanned skin, met her in the hall in front of Angel's secretary's office. Through the crack in the doorway, Buffy saw Drusilla stooped over the computer.  
  
"I'm not officially on duty," Buffy explained. "So I thought I'd come and clean out Angel's office." She hadn't been able to touch his personal things at home yet.  
  
Dr. Giles, an older gray-haired gentleman with glasses nodded. "Probably a good idea."  
  
"Let me know if I can help, Buffy," Dr. Finn said.  
  
Buffy nodded, anxious to escape the doctors. Riley Finn had always made her uncomfortable. Both his smile and his reputation with the ladies raised her defenses fast. She'd observed Dr. Giles at work with some schizophrenic patients. He could be kind and sympathetic, yet ruthless when dealing with a disgruntled patient who refused medication. She'd also heard that he was working on some new treatment for autism that straddled the ethical line endorsed by the American Medical Association. Was that what they had been discussing in hushed voices?  
  
She slipped past them into Dru's office, pasting on a brave smile for the twenty-five year old brunette. Angel had treated her for depression. Newly divorced, Dru had been desperate for a job when Angel hired her.  
  
"Hi, Mrs. O'Connor." Dru's voice quivered with emotions.  
  
"Summers. I'm going back to my maiden name." There was an awkward silence. "Anyway, how are you doing?" Buffy's nursing instincts kicked in.  
  
Drusilla's thin shoulders lifted slightly. "Hanging in there. But I miss Angel."  
  
Buffy smile, surprised to hear Dru refer to him that way.  
  
"I know he's actually been gone for weeks, but all that time—"her voice broke, and she grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk, dabbed her eyes and swallowed, "... all that time I prayed they'd find him alive."  
  
"I know, so did I." She squeezed Dru's shoulder. "But we'll get through this. Just keep telling yourself that you have a job now. You have to stay tough for yourself."  
  
Dru nodded. "You're about the bravest lady I know, Mrs.—I mean Miss Summers."  
  
"You don't give yourself enough credit—you were brave to leave your husband. That takes courage."  
  
Dru nodded again, seeming to draw strength from Buffy's words. Buffy brushed at her khakis. "I came to clean out Angel's office, and to take his personal things home." Buffy closed her hand around the doorknob to Angel's office, but Dru stood, waving a hand.  
  
"You won't believe this, but they've already brought in a replacement for Angel."  
  
Buffy had already pushed the door open though.  
  
She paused, stunned, when she saw Spike Courtland sitting behind her husband's long polished desk.  
  
TBC... 


	11. Chapter 11

Spike felt as if déjà vu had struck him the minute he spotted Buffy standing in the doorway. Impossible.  
  
Finn had told him he had never been in Angel's office or met Buffy before. So, how could he have déjà vu?  
  
"I...I didn't realize you were going to be here," Buffy said.  
  
Spike's stomach clenched. "I didn't either." He stood; ready to apologize. "Finn said they'd planned to put me in a cubicle, but since..." He let the sentence trail off when he saw the horrible meaning register in Buffy's eyes.  
  
No sense wasting good office space, Finn had said. But he didn't tell her that part. That he had thought Finn seemed cold, impersonal. Then again, sometimes scientists were cold and impersonal. They had to be.  
  
Another little tidbit, he realized, wondering if these small flashes of insight were memories prying through the empty spaces in his mind. She squared her shoulders. "I came to get his personal things."  
  
Spike's gaze strayed to the photo of her and her husband.  
  
"You looked very happy," he said, his voice tight.  
  
Emotions flickered across her face. A happy memory obviously surfacing. Then sadness. And something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.  
  
"That was Hawaii, right? Your honeymoon?"  
  
Her gaze flew to his. "How...how did you know that?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe someone told me." The image of Buffy in a calf- length white cotton dress floated through his mind. She'd looked like an angel. Other memories crowded through the haze. A kiss. A long walk on the beach. A sailboat. "The boat tipped and you fell in the water."  
  
His throat grew thick. She was staring at him, a frightened look in her big hazel eyes. "Who told you about our honeymoon?"  
  
He had no idea. Worse, just as quickly as the images had come to him, they disappeared. And once again, his mind was and empty hole.  
  
Buffy gripped the edges of the photo, searching Spike's face for some explanation about his comment, but he offered none. Instead he seemed confused, almost as troubled as she was about his knowledge.  
  
She had only told a few of the nurses about their short trip to Hawaii. As far as she knew, Angel had told no one. Of course, anyone who had come in his office might have asked about the photo, so Angel might have explained the picture. He certainly wouldn't have shared any details thought.  
  
Angel was not that kind of man.  
  
He kept his personal life and feelings to himself, his business life almost a different entity. If she hadn't worked at the center herself, she might never have met his colleagues.  
  
"I'll step outside while you go through things," Spike offered.  
  
Buffy nodded, needing some space. Not only did she dread the task ahead, but being in close proximity to Spike Courtland unnerved her. His presence seemed to take up all the space in the office, filling it with different sense, a huge breathtaking massive one.  
  
A frightening one.  
  
Or maybe it wasn't him at all, but just the fact that he'd been sitting in her late husband's chair.  
  
He reached for the cane and leaned on it, then moved to the door, hesitating. "I'm sorry if my being here makes it more difficult for you."  
  
Buffy clamped down on her lip with her teeth. "It's not your fault."  
  
He gripped the door, confusion in his eyes again. "I didn't ask for Angel's office, Buffy. Dr. Finn insisted. In fact..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I feel uncomfortable being here, too."  
  
Buffy's anxiety lifted slightly. She understood how difficult it was to be the new man on the block. As a nurse and employee of SRP, she should be welcoming him, easing his transition.  
  
"I do need to review his files at some point," Spike said.  
  
"All right." Buffy placed the photo in the box. "Will you be taking over his patients also? And his research?"  
  
He glanced at his hand as if her question disturbed him. "Not right away. I recently had an accident myself."  
  
"I'm sorry. Was it serious?" Buffy remembered the scars.  
  
"Yes, I haven't fully recovered." She waited for further explanation but he didn't elaborate. In fact, she sensed the accident was difficult for him to discuss. She understood about not sharing one's problems, too; her entire life had been a hard road, one that had kept throwing her curves when she least expected it.  
  
Just as it was doing now.  
  
Spike stepped into Dru's office, wondering where the brunette had disappeared to. He felt a small headache pulsing behind his eyes. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the corner table and massaged the side of his temple. What had happened back in Angel's office? How had he known where the photo of Buffy and her husband had been taken? Had one of the other doctors told him? According to Finn, he had only met Angel O'Connor for a brief minute or two when he'd interviewed for the job. Would he have shared something personal with a stranger? Most men didn't.  
  
"Dr. Courtland, are you alright?"  
  
He pivoted, sloshing hot coffee on his hand.  
  
"Oh, my goodness." Dru grabbed a napkin and wiped at his shirt. "I didn't mean to startle you."  
  
"Not your fault." He had said the same thing to Buffy. "I have a headache, that's all."  
  
"Can I get you some aspirin?"  
  
He had no idea why the young woman was so jittery. Was she nervous around all men? "I guess it's just the stress of a new place."  
  
"I know what you mean. I was a wreck when I first came here."  
  
A smile twitched at his lips.  
  
"That must seem weird since I'm acting so nervous now, but I really was a mess. Dr. O'Connor and his wife have helped me immensely."  
  
He narrowed his eyes, not quite comprehending.  
  
"I figured Dr. Finn told you. He doesn't like me very much."  
  
"Why do you say that?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe because I was a patient. Dr. O'Connor helped me with my depression. And his wife, Buffy. She's a real doll, so kind and understanding. Anyway, Dr. Finn wasn't real thrilled when I took the job here. I guess he thought the center shouldn't hire former patients. He probably thinks I'm not very stable." She blushed as if she realized she'd been rambling.  
  
He nodded sympathetically.  
  
"If you want someone to show you around, ask Buffy. She knows everyone in the psych ward. All the doctors I mean."  
  
"That's not a bad idea," he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Before he even glanced sideways, he knew Buffy Summers stood in the doorway. He smelled her body spray, a very soft hint of vanilla, the kind of fragrance she always wore. Subtle but fresh. She hated heavy perfumes; too many patients had allergies and reactions.  
  
His heart stopped beating. How in the bloody hell had he known that?  
  
TBC. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Sorry for such a long wait. I'm really sorry, but it took me forever trying to think up this part.

"What's going on?" Buffy stiffened. Dru and Spike were staring at her as if she'd interrupted some private conversation.

"Nothing," Dru said with a smile. "I was just bragging to Dr. Courtland that if he needed someone to show him around and introduce him to the staff, that you were the one to do it."

Buffy shook her head at Dru's exuberance. Sometimes she acted seventeen instead of twenty-five. Spike's potent masculinity probably intimidated her. Her husband had been about the same build.

Now why would I think that? she thought irritably.

She and Spike were going to be working together. In spite of circumstances, she had to act like a professional.

"I'd be happy to introduce you and show you the facilities," Buffy offered with a smile. "When ever it's convenient for you."

"Thanks. I had a short tour when I was here, and I've met a few people since I arrived, but I'm still not familiar with the Center's layout." He looked at the door. "Wanna go now?"

"Sure." She left the small box of items in Dru's office. "Follow me."

She wound through amaze of offices, pointing out the names of doctors and telling their specialty. Just being there reminded her of Angel. Maybe she should transfer.

Most of the doors were closed, so Buffy passed them, not wanting to disturb their work.

"Where are the labs?" Spike asked.

"On the second floor." Buffy paced herself to suit his pained gait as she led him through the hospital. The next hour she showed him the various floors and departments, pausing to introduce him to several different nurses and counselors.

"Two doctors on this floor are researching a new drug to treat manic depression," she pointed out. "And Dr. Wilkins' pet project is dissociative identity disorder."

"Tell me about the psych ward," Spike said as they entered the wing for the mental patients.

"We see a variety of patients here, some are outpatient and some are here for long-tern treatments and must be confined."

"Are all of the patients using research oriented treatments versus traditional therapy?"

Buffy shook her head. "Not all. The ones who are have come on a volunteer basis, or they're severe cases where traditional techniques or medications haven't been effective."

They'd reached the main floor where patients were received and assessed. "We have counselors and therapists who assess and interview patients when they first come in. Of course we take referrals from other physicians as well."

"It'll take you awhile to get to know everyone," Buffy said, sensing he was becoming overwhelmed.

"Ms. Summers," Kennedy, one of the volunteers called. "Can you come here a minute? Ms. Wells is asking for you."

"She's been diagnosed with schizophrenia," Buffy explained softly to Spike. "But she's doing much better with the new medication."

Spike followed her inside the small room. Buffy winced when she saw Glory Wells hunched into a ball on the floor, her hospital gown gaping. "Ms. Wells, what's going on?" she asked softly, kneeling beside her.

Her spiral blonde strands covered half of her face, her eyes wild. She glanced at Spike and pointed a shaky finger. "Who's that?"

"That is Dr. Courtland," Buffy said. "He's—"

"Get him out of here!" she screeched. "He's one of them!"

Buffy reached out to comfort her; afraid she'd lapsed into on e of her exhaustive states. "One of who?"

"The bad doctors," the young woman said in a high-pitched voice. She rocked back and forth, hugging her arms around her legs. "You don't know what they do in here. I do." Panic rose in her shrill voice. "Get him out of here. Make him go."

Buffy frowned. She needed to calm Glory. "Ms. Wells, Dr. Courtland is new on the staff—"

"No, I've seen him before. He does bad, bad things. Make him leave!"

Buffy stroked her back while Willow ran in with an injection. Spike arched an eyebrow as if to ask if he should help, but Buffy gestured for him to leave. As soon as he stepped from the room, Glory broke down and began to cry.

"What happened?" Willow asked.

"She was asking for me," Buffy explained. "When I came in, she was agitated."

"They hurt people, they—"the young woman began to hum. "—They hook you up to these wires and put this helmet on you and fry you. MY head, it sizzles, it—"she grabbed her head, covering her ears and rocked faster. "—I thought it was going to explode."

"Listen, Glory—"

"You got to be careful Ms. Buffy." Glory dropped he head forward like a child, emitting a low screech. "Don't tell 'em I told you, don't tell 'em," she whispered. "Or they'll kill us both."

TBC.

Plz review!


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